He is irate and callous tonight, dinner was a quiet affair. she doesn't have the energy to dig him out from under him and frankly speaking, her ego would rather do other things. The chicken was too dry when she took it out of the oven. He didn't complain, even though she did. One of them is always complaining. He reassures her of her beauty, her blackest eyes, her brown, brown skin. He is fascinated with her anatomy, night after day, day after night.
But he gets to himself, his skin turns inside out, and it is most uncomfortable to be him and around him. 'I hate it when you don't talk to me,' she said, arms folded, eyes averted. 'My heart beats, my chest rises and falls, my thoughts race, I'm ready to scream at you, but I don't. I never do. I let you be. I'm just a gypsy with wandering eyes, and all I can give you is all of my love.' It was probably nothing, she now thought, this slinking in and out of conversations and reality.
He would slink in and out of her conversations with herself. It was probably nothing, this worrying and fidgeting she did. He stood in little pieces, talking to her picture. Thoughts left his mind as he walked on calm water. In and out of past, present, he couldn't stop touching her. He laughed at her once, when the eyelash she was trying to wish on wouldn't blow away. 'Someday, you'll believe,' she had said. And now they slept with their backs to each other and he believed. He'd whisper in her ear after she was fast asleep, he'd have entire conversations with her. She'd wake up and look over at him, thinking why they couldn't have normalcy when they were both awake.
When they first met, she was with another man. Dancing like she didn't know how to, her skirt in a careless mood. Their eyes had met and she looked adoringly everywhere, so he knew he wasn't the only special one in the room. It was the frivolity that did it for him, he had never met a scattered adult quite like her. The way her hair had to be tamed when she was laughing too hard and how she hummed in broken French with such surety. He'd have difficulty keeping up sometimes, the constant running around as if one was on a perpetual high, but he did it anyway. Too much solemnity in his life had closed him up. They'd switch poles, he'd listen to her cry and watch her sulk in corners, she'd sleep to his guitar sounds and rise to his making breakfast. Interchangeable personalities are always dangerous when they're around each other. And they were around each other all the time. Sometimes danger doesn't need a reason to happen, then.